


(In)consequential

by challengeaccepted



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, F/M, Gang Rape, Gen, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-21
Updated: 2012-01-21
Packaged: 2019-02-28 22:26:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13281123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/challengeaccepted/pseuds/challengeaccepted
Summary: Omega!Sherlock goes into heat in a house full of alphas.  Beta!Molly is unaffected, but she's not strong enough to fight them off.  After they get back to London, Sherlock comes to Molly for help.





	(In)consequential

**Author's Note:**

> Not written by the same Moriarty/Moran author on this account.
> 
>  **Prompt:** http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/15253.html?thread=83163029#t83163029
> 
> _There's a big case and all the cops and everyone have to go on location and stay in the same house/some kind of confined space. Unfortunately, this is when omega!Sherlock goes into heat -- and drives every other person in the house crazy. John, Lestrade, Sally, Anderson, Mycroft, Molly, hell, Jim, whoever else you can think of -- they're all alphas and they all want in on Sherlock, and fight amongst themselves to see who is going to bond with Sherlock._

Around the third hour, Sherlock woke up.  
  
No one else noticed, focused as they were on the place where Sherlock and Lestrade were joined, that slick, clenching hole they were waiting desperately for their turn to fuck – no one was looking at his face. No one besides Molly, who saw Sherlock's eyes snapping into focus for the first time in hours, sharp and alert, and then filling, just as suddenly, with horror and shame.  
  
"Sherlock," said Molly, because no one was listening to her – _she's a beta, not a threat, not important_ – and wished she was close enough to wipe the tears from his face. "It's going to be all right."  
  
He didn't have to say anything for Molly to know he didn't believe her – the look in his eyes was enough. It was gone in another instant as Lestrade slammed in again, and Sherlock's expression became suddenly blank once again, like a house with no one home.  
  
"It's going to be all right," said Molly, but this time it was to herself.

 

 

 

It was a four-hour drive out to the abandoned bunker, half an hour away from the nearest sign of civilization. There were only six of them in the police van, but it still felt stifling and crowded with the way Sherlock and Sergeant Donovan kept sniping at each other like there was a cash prize for the winner. Molly was stuck in the back seat with the lab equipment, sharing sympathetic looks with John in the rearview mirror.  
  
If she had had any illusions as to why they wanted her instead of their usual lab tech, the fact that they had two DIs involved would have given it away before Lestrade had even mentioned exactly who it was they'd gotten a lead on. She hadn't dated Jim that long, just a few dinners at her place, but apparently the police thought she might be able to give them an advantage, even if she obviously wouldn't be any use in a firefight though.  
  
The bunker was surrounded by a dust that bore the marks of recent tire treads, and everyone cautiously made their way inside. There was no sign of Jim or any of his colleagues, though, just a small note propped on the kitchen table that said simply, "Missed me?"  
  
Molly watched as Sherlock growled with frustration and swept a tangle of wires and electronics off the table. John stepped forward to soothe him, but Sherlock brushed him off.  
  
"Calm down," said Lestrade. "There's at least some evidence here, yeah? Better than nothing."  
  
"It might as well be nothing," snapped Sherlock. "Until we catch him, we have – oh." Suddenly he was pushing past the lot of them and practically running to a small room at the back of the bunker where he barricaded himself inside, coat and all.  
  
Dimmock looked perplexed. "What just happened?"  
  
The room was most likely a bathroom, the most private area in the bunker. John said he thought Sherlock was upset about missing out on capturing Moriarty once again and needed somewhere to sulk; Sally said, with no small amount of malice, that he'd probably just gotten the runs.  
  
Hours later they had collected all the evidence they could from the bunker and were ready to go, but Sherlock still hadn't stepped foot outside the bathroom. Lestrade, who Molly knew was abnormally patient when it came to Sherlock, strode up and rapped on the door. "Sherlock, come out! We need to head back now before it gets dark."  
  
There was no response. Lestrade turned back to the rest of them and shrugged. There was no way to open the door from the outside, they'd tried, and there was a brief discussion about whether they should just leave Sherlock there as punishment, since he would surely find his way home eventually.  
  
"Oh my god," interrupted Sally. Her eyes widened. "Do you smell that?"  
  
John sniffed the air. "I don't smell – oh, god." Dimmock and Lestrade were sniffing at the air as well, then looking quickly around the room with slightly glazed expressions, mouths open.  
  
"What is it?" said Molly. "I can't smell anything." She wasn't panicking, exactly, but it worried her that she was missing something. "All I smell is... air."  
  
John turned in her direction, but it was a long second before his expression really focused on her. "Sherlock's an omega," he said, shaking his head. "He's an omega, he didn't tell anyone, and now he's bloody went and gone into _heat_." 

 

 

 

"Ah, Molly," said Sherlock, wide false smile plastered across his face as he strode into the morgue. "I knew you'd still be here. I have a test I need you to run for me." 

 

 

 

Dimmock took another turn, and then Sally. By the time it got to John's second turn, though, Sherlock had passed out from exhaustion. John, blinking in surprise, looked like he didn't have the first clue what to do with Sherlock now, and Molly took her chance. She lunged for him with speed she hadn't even known she had, hoping to drag Sherlock back to the bathroom and tend to him, but Sally struck her across the face and she fell back, eyes stinging.  
  
When she looked back, John had –  
  
John had –  
  
He had simply picked Sherlock up, heedless of his unconsciousness, and started to fuck him anyway. Molly cried out in horror at the sight of Sherlock's limbs, which dangled all over the place like a puppet whose strings had been cut. It didn't seem to make a difference to John, though, who was still making obscene noises as he rutted into Sherlock's limp body, coming with a rough grunt.  
  
After he pulled out, he let Sherlock slump to the ground. Molly rushed in, prepared to be slapped away. They must have all been sated, however, because this time no one stopped her.  
  
Sherlock's body felt like dead weight in her arms. 

 

 

 

"An omega? _Sherlock?_ "  
  
John nodded, and so did Lestrade. "God knows I'm surprised," said Lestrade. "He always seemed like such an alpha to me, bossing people around, scaring my officers. Never expected him to be an _omega_."  
  
From the looks of it, everyone else was surprised as well. Molly generally just assumed everyone around her was an alpha – she didn't want to offend anyone by suggesting they were an omega, but people had a tendency to come out to her regardless. Jim, she remembered, had been an omega, or so he'd said.  
  
"Knew he was a freak," mumbled Sally quietly. Both John and Lestrade shot her disapproving glances.  
  
Dimmock looked impatient. "How long is this supposed to last?" he said. "We've got cases that need us back in London. What if we left Holmes here to wait it out and then came back for him?"  
  
John shook his head. "No, we can't. An omega in heat can't take care of himself. If we leave Sherlock here, he's going to dehydrate and we'll be coming back to a corpse. At least one of us has to stay here, look after him."  
  
"Well, I can't," said Lestrade. "And neither can you or Donovan or Dimmock." He pursed his lips. "What about you, Dr Hooper? You said you didn't smell anything earlier."  
  
Molly nodded. "I'm – I'm a beta." Alphas didn't normally become forensic pathologists – cutting up dead people was significantly less risky and ambitious than cutting up live ones. "I can stay with him."  
  
"Then that's what we'll do," John said decisively. "Molly, the four of us will leave for London. Give me a ring when it's safe to come back and we'll take him home."  
  
"All right," said Molly. It sounded like a good plan, and she had a pocket novel with her to pass the time, so she wouldn't get bored. Meena could cover for her at work. If she thought about it, it was almost like a vacation.  
  
After brief discussion, the officers went outside to load up the van with the equipment and evidence. John went to the kitchen and came back with a sandwich on a platter and handed it to Molly.  
  
"He needs to eat," John insisted. "I can't go near that door and I know he hates eating anyway, but..." He sighed. "It's worth a try. Can you take this to him, please? Thank you." 

 

 

 

Molly had honestly expected Sherlock to never speak to her again, and now he was here asking for her help. He looked just the same as always, coldly imperious with a smile that never reached his eyes, like nothing had changed. She had never been able to hold his gaze for very long, and she was even less capable of it now.  
  
"They have pregnancy tests at Tesco's," she said, ducking her head. "I can run out and get one for you, if you don't want to be seen..."  
  
"It's two weeks before those tests become effective," said Sherlock. "The blood tests can be done after 72 hours. I need to know _now_."  
  
"Shouldn't you go to a proper doctor for this?" asked Molly.  
  
"Most certainly not," said Sherlock. He removed his coat, gloves, and suit jacket, and sat down beside her workstation. "I'd have to explain the circumstances, the doctor would be legally obligated to report the crime, and I'd lose most of my connections with the police. I refuse to break in another DI. Twice was difficult enough."  
  
Molly fished around in her drawer for a sterile syringe. "You could lie," she suggested, halfheartedly stalling. Sherlock certainly seemed good enough to fool a doctor into thinking it had been consensual. "Party gone a little wild, that sort of thing?"  
  
"It would still go on my record, and Mycroft would see through the ruse in a second," Sherlock said. "My brother can occasionally rise to action given the right motivation, and no doubt everyone involved would mysteriously 'disappear' before the weekend."  
  
Molly's blood froze. "You mean me, too, right?" She'd never had to run for her life before. "Am I going to have to leave the country?"  
  
Pale eyes turned towards her. "You weren't involved," said Sherlock matter-of-factly.  
  
Hadn't she been, though? Molly found she didn't quite know what to say to him. She prepped the inside of Sherlock's elbow with an alcohol swab and tried not to think about the marks she saw there, only visible under the harsh fluorescent lighting. "Hold still, please." 

 

 

 

She'd just gotten the door locked when Sherlock stirred and gave a soft groan. "John?" he said, but then his eyes focused and he said, more sharply, "Molly."  
  
"Yes, I'm here," she replied. She ran to the tap and filled up an empty glass she'd found on the counter. "You should drink something."  
  
Sherlock looked at the glass with bleary eyes, not moving a muscle, and after a minute Molly realized she'd have to help him drink it. She didn't want to touch him, but she couldn't let him die. She crouched back down to where Sherlock was slumped against the wall. "You need to drink this," she insisted, trying to keep the tears out of her voice. "It's been – it's been almost two days."  
  
With her help Sherlock drank two glasses of water before shoving Molly weakly away. "Enough," he said. He seemed too worn out for anything else though, lying half on the floor with his naked limbs bent uncomfortably. "Leave me be."  
  
"Are you sure I can't help?" said Molly. "You're feverish – we could get you into the tub, run a bath..."  
  
It took Sherlock a few moments to reply. "Perhaps a bath," he said.  
  
As Molly watched, concerned and ready to help, he rose stiffly to his feet and shuffled the last few steps to the porcelain tub. His nudity didn't seem to matter to him, but Molly kept her eyes averted from below his waist.  
  
Once he had gotten settled, Molly came over to turn on the water. "Cool or hot?" Cool would help with his temperature, but hot would help with the pain.  
  
"Cool, please," said Sherlock.  
  
Molly complied, letting the tub fill until Sherlock's body was obscured up to his chest. She tried not to think about the various fluids that clouded the water and instead concentrated on searching the cabinets for soap and a towel.  
  
"Don't let him file a police report," said Sherlock, startling her out of her thoughts.  
  
"Let who? John?"  
  
"Lestrade," Sherlock corrected. "Moral to a _fault_. He'll incriminate himself and everyone else present, and then I'll have no flatmate and no contacts at the Yard. No, he mustn't. This incident doesn't matter."  
  
"They assaulted you," said Molly, horrified. "They _raped_ you. Of course it matters."  
  
Sherlock looked at her, eyes blazing with lust and heat, anger and shame. "It only matters if I let it."  
  
He slumped back into the tub, and Molly knew the conversation was over. 

 

 

 

"Sherlock?" Molly knocked on the door, trying to sound inviting. "Sherlock, I brought you a sandwich."  
  
"Go away, Molly," said Sherlock. Even through a layer of steel, he still sounded miserable. "I'm not hungry."  
  
"But you need to eat," persisted Molly. "Your metabolism has doubled, you need to keep your strength up."  
  
Sherlock had clearly been pacing behind the door, and his footsteps stopped. "This body is _transport_ , Molly. I can wait it out. Do _not_ open this door."  
  
"I'm not leaving until I know you've had a bite to eat," Molly said.  
  
Several minutes passed, and Molly had nearly given up on the matter, before the lock clicked, the door opened, and all hell broke loose. 

 

 

 

"What will you do with it?" asked Molly. "If you are, y'know." She unknotted the rubber tourniquet, tossed it aside, and pressed a cotton ball to Sherlock's elbow. "Are you going to keep it?"  
  
"I couldn't bear a child, that would be ridiculous." Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "It doesn't matter whose it is."  
  
"My cousin got an abortion," Molly said. "A regular abortion, not the kind that you'd have to get. She was back on her feet in no time. I'm sure you'd be too."  
  
"Why are you telling me this?"  
  
Molly shrugged. "I don't know. Trying to be helpful?"  
  
"Unnecessary," said Sherlock. "As you yourself said, I'd be back on my feet in no time. The sooner this whole incident is over and done with the better."  
  
For someone like Sherlock, maybe that was possible. But for Molly and the others, this was never going to be over. 

 

 

 

She woke to the sounds of Sherlock masturbating.  
  
It took her a moment to realize what it was, and then her eyes flew open and she nearly fell over from shock. Sherlock had drained the tub, and lay on his back, his shins slung over the rim of the tub.  
  
A slick, slapping noise – and an unfamiliar one, a sound like boots squelching in wet mud. Molly refused to turn her head to look, her ears burning with shame. She knew if she looked, she would see Sherlock's hand pumping his cock, and his other hand plugging up his arse, searching out sensitive glands even his long fingers weren't capable of reaching.  
  
She had seen omega porn before – it always started out this way before an alpha walked on-screen to fuck them into submission. But the omegas in those videos always looked so happy to be bred, like it was their sole purpose in life, and it was nothing like the way Sherlock seemed so tortured, like his heat was literally killing him.  
  
Sherlock moaned when he came, echoing off the bathroom walls and ringing in Molly's ears. Seconds later there was insistent banging on the door as the four alphas demanded to be let inside to mate him.  
  
Molly dared to look at him then, and Sherlock's expression seemed more lucid. He was red and bruised and sweaty, but his expression was back in control.  
  
"What does it feel like?" She knew she shouldn't ask questions, but her scientific curiosity got the better of her. She'd never been in heat, never would be – it simply wasn't programmed into her. She had been in lust before, though. Heat must be something like that, but multiplied by a factor of thousands, completely uncontrollable.  
  
"It's – " Sherlock seemed at a loss for words. "It's a biological imperative demanding I spread my legs for any alpha that crosses my path and _mate_. My brain shuts off, my body stops following my orders – it's _repugnant_."  
  
"Does it hurt?"  
  
Sherlock closed his pale eyes and turned away from her.  
  
"Sorry," said Molly. "I shouldn't have asked. You don't have to tell."  
  
When Sherlock spoke it was in a whisper. "It does hurt," he said. "All over my skin. In my mouth and in my arse. I – I _need_ to be touched. Even if I don't _want_ to be touched. I _need_ to be fucked and dominated and bred – I'm no better than an animal."  
  
He started to cry, shivering against the cold porcelain of the tub, and Molly didn't know what to do. She fell asleep eventually, dreams full of terror and a terrible, unnameable pain. 

 

 

 

The platter went crashing on the ground as Molly was shoved aside roughly by four scent-mad alphas, landing hard on her hip. John had a hold of Sherlock's hair and was dragging him outside the bathroom while Lestrade all but ripped Sherlock's clothes off.  
  
"This is all your fault," John was saying. "Driving us all up the wall, you bloody well _deserve_ this – "  
  
Molly had never heard Sherlock in pain before. Never heard him scream or shout or cry, or generally show any emotion at all. She was sure that, after today, she would never be able to forget it. 

 

 

 

"So how's John?"  
  
The question hung in the air and Molly cursed herself silently for asking.  
  
Finally Sherlock said, "John moved out."  
  
"Into Sarah's place?" She hadn't known they were that serious. "I guess that's... good, right?"  
  
"Sarah left him when he told her," said Sherlock. "I don't know where he went." He shrugged. "It was John's idea, not mine. He'll turn up."  
  
There was a ping and a small window popped up on Molly's monitor, interrupting whatever she was about to say.  
  
"Tell me," said Sherlock. He had his eyes closed. "Please, Molly." 

 

 

 

She couldn't pretend anymore – she was starving. There was nothing in the bathroom for either of them to eat, and time was running out. The human body could survive, but when the others cut off the water supply to the bathroom, Molly knew something had to be done.  
  
"What are we going to do? We'll die in here." She was frantic, thinking about her aging parents and how she would never see them again before dying of dehydration in an underground bunker. "Sherlock, what do we do?"  
  
"The answer should be simple, even for you," said Sherlock. "We open the door."  
  
Molly gaped at him in shock. "We _can't_. There's no way we can fight them off, not in this state. They'll – they'll hurt you again."  
  
Sherlock stared back at her. "When they break through this door, and they will break through this door, they are going to hurt _you_."  
  
"I don't care," said Molly.  
  
"And I don't care about being hurt. My body can take it. As long as I close off my mind it can take it as well."  
  
"No," said Molly, and that seemed to be that.  
  
They made it through another 24 hours, attempting to give each other privacy in the small bathroom, and it began to look like they would make it through Sherlock's heat in one piece. Molly let herself daydream about sipping homemade piña coladas while watching the marathon of _Downton Abbey_ she'd been saving for a rainy day. Sherlock didn't do much talking of his own, but Molly knew he had to be looking forward to going home.  
  
The next time Molly awoke, the door was open, and Sherlock was gone. A can of soup sat on the bathroom counter along with a spoon. From the living room, Molly could hear the sounds of rough, animalistic mating and Sherlock's pained moans.  
  
Once she finished throwing up bile, she forced herself to choke down the soup. Sherlock had done this for her. The least she could do was honor his sacrifice.  
  
It was almost three days after they arrived at the bunker when Sherlock finally went out of heat.  
  
John slammed into Sherlock's body and just as abruptly jerked backwards and fell onto his arse. "Oh god," he was saying, "oh god, oh god."  
  
"John?" Molly stood up, alarmed.  
  
John got barely more than two paces before bending double and vomiting. "Oh god, Sherlock, I'm sorry." His erection still hadn't flagged and it bobbed obscenely as he put his head into his hands and began to cry. "Oh god, what have I done, fuck, I'm _sorry_ – "  
  
_The heat_ , realized Molly. It must have suddenly worn off.  
  
From the looks on the faces of the others as they came back to themselves, they felt it too.  
  
"Bloody fuck," said Lestrade. He looked around frantically for a moment before rushing over to Sherlock's side. "Sherlock, talk to me. Fuck, I'm so sorry, Sherlock, we'll get you an ambulance. Hold on."  
  
Sherlock made weak motions to fight Lestrade off, but Lestrade insisted on checking him over. His hands were shaking, and so were John's, as he tentatively came over and helped Lestrade with the examination.  
  
Sally looked stricken, like she was about to cry as well, but she didn't. Instead she started to hunt around the room for her clothes, and after some hesitation, Dimmock did the same. Fully dressed, they disappeared outside the bunker.  
  
Molly went to the dinner table and stared at the wall while John and Lestrade checked Sherlock over. After several minutes Lestrade declared Sherlock had no permanent injuries, and John stumbled to his feet, saying, "I need to call Sarah."  
  
Molly watched him go in a daze.  
  
No permanent injuries.  
  
No permanent _physical_ injuries.  
  
"Dr Hooper, could I get a hand here?" said Lestrade, snapping Molly out of it. "Help me get him in the tub, yeah? We can't bring him back like this."  
  
"Of course," said Molly, and went to help. 

 

 

 

Around the third hour, Sherlock woke up. 

 

 

 

Against all odds, the result was negative. Sherlock had been bred by four different alphas, three of them men. Somehow, however, he was miraculously child-free.  
  
Molly checked the results twice to be sure. "Thank god," she said, sighing in relief. "You're not pregnant."  
  
"Hm," said Sherlock. He swung himself out of his chair and snatched up his coat. "Thank you, Molly. Good night."  
  
"Sherlock, wait," said Molly. He stopped and gave her a curious look, and she took a deep breath. "Do you want to... you know, talk about it?"  
  
"Talk about what?" Sherlock knotted his scarf around his pale neck. "There's nothing to talk about. I'm deleting it as we speak."  
  
"You can't just delete what happened," said Molly. Could he? "You have to talk about it – see someone – "  
  
Sherlock turned back from the door. "Why would I need to see someone if I no longer remembered it? Completely unnecessary."  
  
Molly suddenly felt like crying. " _I_ can't just delete what happened." She knew it was selfish of her to say – this wasn't about her, not one bit – but it was true. She balled her hands up into fists and looked down at her knees, willing herself under control. This wasn't about her at all.  
  
There were footsteps, and then Sherlock was standing in front of her chair. "Molly," he said, reaching out to take her hands. He wasn't wearing gloves, and his skin was warm. "It's going to be all right."  
  
She did start to cry, then – for Sherlock, for herself, for John and Lestrade and Sally and Dimmock – and Sherlock kept his hands around hers the entire time. 

 

 

 

They put Sherlock in the back of the van, laying him down carefully on his side. The equipment and forensic samples were moved to the middle row under everyone's feet, and Sally had relinquished the front seat to Dimmock. Molly ended up in the middle row on John's other side, and immediately leaned against the door to watch the countryside roll by.  
  
No one was arguing this time, and the silence was almost painful. An hour in, they pulled over to stretch their legs and take a bathroom break, and as Molly exited the van she heard Sherlock calling her name from the backseat.  
  
"Are you doing okay back there?" she asked, patting down her pockets. "Do you need water, some food? I've got some cash on me, I can get you something if you'd like? Some crisps, maybe?"  
  
"I don't want crisps," said Sherlock, sounding exhausted, like talking was a monumental effort.  
  
"But is there something else?" Molly prompted.  
  
In response, Sherlock simply folded himself smaller on the backseat, curling into himself. Molly was confused for a second before she realized he was making room for her to sit. She climbed in, making herself comfortable, and Sherlock moved so his head was pillowed on her lap.  
  
When the rest of them got back, they looked surprised, then guilty, when they noticed Molly in the backseat, but no one said anything about it.  
  
Somewhere around Somerset, Sherlock fell asleep.  
  
"We'll be home soon," said Molly, threading her fingers through Sherlock's hair. She felt a little guilty – when he was back to feeling like Sherlock again, he would probably regret ever speaking to her. He had been so open and honest at the bunker, and no doubt he'd hate her for having seen him in such a vulnerable state. He would probably never want to see her ever again.  
  
If he ever decided he wanted to talk, though, she'd be there.


End file.
